


He Who Gave You Wings

by Evesi



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Assassin's Creed III, Assassin's Creed: Forsaken, I'm sorry Haytham, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-05 19:17:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evesi/pseuds/Evesi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haytham had nothing but respect for Reginald, so when had everything gone so terribly wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Who Gave You Wings

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following prompt on the AssCreed kink meme: _Could this Anon get a fic where Haytham (still young, perhaps teenage years, ie, 16-20) Is with Reginald Birch, still very much trusting him, and gets completely taken advantage of, yes in the way you're thinking of._
> 
> _I would love it if it started as dub-con and turned into non-con. Haytham agreeing to it first, but Reginald does a shitty job of preparing him (Or doesn't bother with it at all) and he ends up hurt, begging him to stop._
> 
> _Bonus points:_  
>  _+50 ~ Begging, any kind any sort._  
>  _+100 ~ Dirty talk_  
>  _+150 ~ Reginald being an ass, basically telling him to suck it up and deal with the pain._  
>  _+200 ~ Tears, on Haytham's part._
> 
> _If you can think of anything else please add it. I'm gonna go hide in the corner of shame now... >////>_

**I.**

As a child, Haytham only had eyes for his father. The man was his idol, and he could do no wrong; his words, his wisdom, his skill--he could only hope to be as great as Edward. Such was a fool’s errand, of course, as no one-- _no one_ \--could be as incredible as he.

This was, at least, his mindset up to the point that he started to live under the guidance of Reginald Birch. The two men were similar in a sense (inspiring, powerful, skilled with a blade), but the presence of his mentor was different. While his father had an aura of playful mystique about him, Master Birch seemed... darker. Oh, make no mistake, his personality was no less alluring to a young boy, but there was definitely something that stirred a sense of fear within him.

Still, he could not help but be drawn toward the man like a moth to a flame.

Besides, it was not as if Master Birch had done him any wrong--quite the opposite, actually. With his mother a hollow shell of whom she used to be, his father dead, and his sister missing, Haytham had few others to turn to. Master Birch was the only individual he could trust and the only one who seemed interested in getting revenge upon those who had decimated the Kenway family, even if he did seem rather preoccupied by all of this business about Assassins and Templars.

The two factions didn’t really matter to him--not now, not at this age. Haytham was happy enough to find order in his life again--purpose and direction. (Master Birch always thought that was amusing whenever Haytham voiced his appreciation for his patronage.) The structure and _rigidity_ of his mentor’s teachings were exactly what he needed now after all of the upheaval he’d experienced; it served as a way to ground himself, even if it didn’t mesh well with what Haytham had learned from his own father.

As the years passed, though, that fact became less and less important. Edward Kenway became a fond memory, a man great in his own time, but it was Master Birch who held his admiration now--and it was all too obvious that he was not the only one who held his mentor in such high regard.

Whenever Haytham attended a Templar gathering with his guardian, he could feel the attention of all in the room fall first upon the Grand Master before shifting to settle on _him_ \--his one and only pupil. He would bask quietly in the attention, and whenever he was complimented for his current achievements and what great promise he held, Master Birch would swell with pride beside him.

It was a sight that made his own confidence soar, and Haytham would endeavor to do all in his power to keep himself in his mentor’s favor. After all, what better feeling was there than to know that the man who’d given him a second chance--given him the means to pursue all of his dreams--was proud of him?

Haytham would do anything for Master Birch. _Anything._

**II.**

In the eighteenth year of his life, Haytham became a Knight Templar.

It was a momentous occasion, and for days after, he would continue to marvel at the silver ring around his finger. Reginald would chuckle at his boyish wonder, and it was with some bitterness that Haytham noted that the Grand Master’s attitude toward him still felt like one between adult and child, master and apprentice. Was he not a man now and worthy of respect?

Some would have argued that Haytham had just gained his wings and had yet to come into his own, but his hands were already stained red in the name of the Templar cause. It frustrated him, but he remained quiet, if only to avoid Reginald’s disapproval. All that he did was for the Order--for the Grand Master. He was _determined_ to find out and do what was necessary to become an equal in his mentor’s eyes.

In the end, what was _necessary_ was, perhaps, not what he was expecting.

Returning to their French chateau following a mission, Haytham felt _terrible_ ; he was covered in the dust of his travels, the blood of his victims stained his clothes, and his hair was a tangled mess--not to mention that exhaustion was clearly apparent in his expression. His appearance spoke of the trouble he’d suffered in trying to attain the letter stuffed in his coat pocket, but Haytham certainly didn’t want Reginald to think that he’d had trouble with his assignment.

Any hope of escaping the man’s notice until he’d managed to clean up a tad were dashed when Reginald greeted him halfway up the path to their residence, sitting astride his own steed as if he were expecting Haytham all along. The drag of his eyes over his body was expected, given his disheveled state, but the slight smile that accompanied it was a little less so.

“I did warn you that those bandits were a rough bunch, did I not?” Reginald asked, voice pitched to that perfect condescending tone that he knew Haytham hated. He bristled and urged his horse back into a walk.

“Come to laugh at my inglorious return, have you?” he bit out, growing more irritated with each passing second. Haytham reached inside his pocket and wrenched the letter out, stuffing it into Reginald’s hand; his eyes flashed in challenge, daring his mentor to say a word. Certainly, he had come back a little worse for the wear, but Haytham _had_ returned, which was more than could be said for a number of _other_ Templar agents who had been previously tasked with the job.

“On the contrary. You’ve nothing but my eternal gratitude.” Reginald tucked the letter away, no doubt to savor it later on, and Haytham tamped down the urge to roll his eyes. Of course, the man’s next words would cause his annoyance to all but melt away: “You have truly come into your own, Haytham. You have grown into an admirable man and my most trusted and talented agent.

“I’d have no other by my side.”

He felt a hand settle against his arm, and Haytham looked down at it briefly before meeting Reginald’s gaze. There was a look in the man’s eyes that he’d long come to associate with want, and when the Grand Master _wanted_ something, he would always have it, regardless of whether it was money, power, land, or something of a more personal nature--of a matter that had nothing to do with the Templars. It was a look that had once made him shiver as a boy, and while he was now a man, he found his hands clenching a little tighter around his reins, his breath catching in his throat.

Haytham carefully pulled his arm out of Reginald’s grasp, but he kept his eyes locked with the Grand Master’s. “You need to stop thinking that I’ll disappoint you,” he answered, allowing a sharp smile cross his features. “You’ll injure my pride that way.”

“Mm, I suppose we can’t allow that to happen.” 

Reginald did not touch him or give him any more strange looks after that, but Haytham would remember this exchange, if only because of the odd feeling it left in its wake--one that was not pleasant but not entirely _un_ pleasant either.

**III.**

“That was a job well done, Haytham.”

Reginald had never been generous with his praise, and those words brought a smile to his lips, filling him with a warmth that he’d never admit to. It mixed well with the adrenaline still humming in his veins; Haytham wondered if the thrill of the hunt would always remain after every assassination or only after his first. After all, this... _this_ was killing perfected into an art--completely and utterly different from simply slaughtering men on a battlefield.

“I always knew that nothing but good would come from taking you under my wing,” the Grand Master continued, resting his hands on his shoulders. Pride swelled within Haytham’s chest, and his chin rose, smug confidence in his every feature. That action earned him Reginald’s laughter, low and rich to his ears. “I could not have made a finer investment.

“Truly, you are my masterpiece.”

Something about the way he said those words gave Haytham pause. His smile faltered briefly, but he recovered a moment later, raising a hand to brush Reginald’s away. When the man’s grip only tightened, his eyebrows lifted, and the Grand Master took a step closer, forcing himself into Haytham’s personal space. He was immediately reminded of an incident almost a year ago--of an incident when a hungry gaze had first caused worry-- _anticipation_ \--to fill him.

“Reginald,” he started, doing his best to keep his voice level; even now, Haytham struggled to avoid overtly upsetting the Grand Master. If he could just side-step this matter, all would be resolved, right? “The compliment is, as always, appreciated. Did you still want to an official report?”

His mentor merely chuckled, honey-sweet and all too pleasant to match the tension that was quickly building between them. “Later, Haytham. Complete it later,” he replied--a slow, easy drawl. “I’d rather celebrate your first kill.” Reginald shook his head, correcting himself. “Apologies. Your first _assassination_.”

The Grand Master canted his head, as if angling for a kiss, and Haytham swallowed, his mouth going dry. Heart hammering in his chest out of both excitement and dread, he waited for their lips to meet, but at the last moment, Reginald paused, eyes flicking over to meet his. “You’ll allow me this, won’t you? For all that I’ve done for you.”

“Of course. Have I ever denied you anything?”

To his credit, his voice was steady, but Haytham knew that he was hiding behind a thin veneer of bravado now. Whether he didn’t know this or merely pretended not to, Reginald smiled, pleased with his answer. “Good choice.”

And that was the end of their conversation.

The feeling of lips crushed against his own caused Haytham to inhale sharply, hands instinctively reaching for and closing around the closest thing available--in this case, Reginald’s coat. As was the norm, the man took what he wanted without a second thought, turning him and pushing Haytham back towards his desk, shoving until there was nowhere else to go. Only then did he relent, nipping at Haytham’s lips until they stung.

Reginald’s hands finally left his shoulders, planting themselves on either side of Haytham’s hips, and Haytham’s went to tug on short hair, splay themselves over a broad back. It was different kissing a man--all sharp angles and planes of muscle, the drag of stubble against his cheek--but he was quickly finding that it was not as unpleasant as he’d first imagined. Reginald was, as he was in all aspects of life, talented in this field, and Haytham yielded with growing enthusiasm, moaning softly in encouragement.

“Eager, are we?” the Grand Master asked, dark humor warming his tone, and he ground his hips against Haytham’s, eliciting a groan from the both of them. The heat and friction were _delightful_ , sending jolts of pleasure straight down to his groin with each rock of their bodies, and while the answering bulge that he felt pressed between his legs was _different_ , it did nothing to hinder the heady feeling of lust that was quickly claiming his senses.

He felt soft lips pressing kisses to his neck before teeth worried at his earlobe, and Haytham tilted his head to allow Reginald better access, eyes fluttering shut at the sensation. He had been worried before--worried about that _hunger_ he’d seen in his mentor’s eyes--but he’d been wrong. Reginald had never been anything but good to him; why would that change now? The trust between them spanned _years_ , and while this man had sent him into dangerous situations before, this was personal and intimate--this was _safe_.

Thinking that was his first mistake.

Gentle hands suddenly turned rough, and within a blink of an eye, Reginald had flipped him over, scattering books, quills, papers, and bottles off of the desk and onto the floor. The Grand Master smoothed a hand over his arse, possessive, and hummed, as if pleased with the firm muscle that he found there. Haytham shivered before trying to right himself and quickly found that he could not, not with a hand firmly holding him right where he was. “Reginald--”

“I want to watch as I take you.” Haytham felt his coattails being flipped onto his back, and then Reginald reached around his waist, fumbling awkwardly to undo his breeches. “I’ve no doubt--” Fingers curled around the hem of his clothing and _yanked_. “--that it’ll be a sight worth seeing.” Cool air against heated skin forced him to tremble. “I’ll be your first, won’t I?”

He laughed breathlessly, but there was more nervousness than humor in his tone. Haytham slicked his lips with his tongue and struggled to find his voice. “I don’t make it a habit of spreading my legs for others, if that is what you’re implying,” he said, forcing himself to not ball his hands into fists or lash out physically against the Grand Master; this felt... wrong somehow. “But Reginald--”

“But nothing. You agreed to this, did you not?” The gentle roll of Reginald’s still-clothed hips against his arse caused anxiety to spike within him, and the warm weight of the man’s body was not comforting in the least. Even so, Haytham remained hard, his erection bumping against the desk. Should he feel ashamed? He wasn’t sure anymore.

Behind him, he could hear the rustle of fabric, could feel Reginald’s hand bump against his rear as he freed himself with a low moan. Thick, heated flesh pressed against the cleft of his arse, and immediately, Haytham froze, breath catching in his throat. This was impossible. How in the world was he supposed to take _that_ inside of him? Where was the pleasure to be found in any of this? Surely he’d die of _pain_ if he allowed this encounter to continue.

Unknowing (or uncaring) of his plight, Reginald began searching for something on his person, ignoring the fidgeting body beneath him. Close to his ear, his mentor tutted quietly and sighed; the man’s exasperation did little to soothe his worries. “The vial’s not here. I knew I forgot something when I was dressing today,” Reginald muttered. “No matter. We’ll make do.”

Long fingers were presented before his mouth. “Suck.” When Haytham hesitated, Reginald continued, “Or would you prefer to have no slick at all?”

“I’d rather we didn’t do this.” The words tumbled out of his mouth, and the Grand Master stilled for a moment before chuckling, nipping at his neck.

“You can’t tell me that you don’t want this--not with how aroused you are.” He traced his fingertips against his lower lip, his touch growing heavier when Haytham did not relent. “Now, will you be a good boy, or will I have to be unnecessarily rough with you?”

“Reginald, _please_ \--”

Again, the man tutted, and Haytham could sense his disappointment--a feeling that he had long sought to avoid at all costs. Reginald lifted himself off of his back, and for a moment, hope flickered back to life before being completely and utterly extinguished when Haytham felt the blunt head of the man’s cock push at and then _past_ his entrance. 

A strangled sound ripped itself out of his throat as pain lanced up his spine, forcing his eyes to squeeze shut and his hands to curl into fists, fingernails digging into his palms. Haytham squirmed, trying to get away, but each movement only made the stretch, the burn, the _agony_ that much worse. Distantly, he could hear Reginald saying something--words that he couldn’t comprehend, not while there was another voice ringing in his ears: this one was begging for this torture to cease.

Haytham was sure that an eternity had passed by the time Reginald was fully seated within him. He felt full, entirely too full, and it felt so unnatural, so repulsive; his skin crawled, and for all the strength that he possessed, Haytham could not lift a finger to defend himself, as his chest heaved and his body trembled. The hand at his back was as unyielding as ever, pinning him right where he was. “This is _wrong_ ,” he murmured, unsure of whether Reginald could even hear him at this point. “Stop this madness. I beg of you--”

“Oh, come now, Haytham.” A warm hand stroked his side in what was likely supposed to be a comforting manner. “You’ll come to enjoy it.”

\--Except that he didn’t.

Each thrust of the hips wrung out a whimper, a poorly muffled cry, but his body had ceased to protest. Like a rag doll, Haytham allowed himself to be fucked raw; the pain, the shame, and the shock had overtaken him, reduced him to nothing--whatever fighting spirit had remained in him was gone. He buried his face in his arms and tried to ignore the filthy sounds of pleasure Reginald made above him; tears--tears he had not shed in more than a decade--wet his sleeves. Haytham hoped and prayed to any deity that would listen that this would _end_ soon, but like when he’d begged the man to stop, his pleas went unanswered.

Forever and ever, the agony seemed never-ending until, at long last, he felt Reginald tense behind him, felt a disgusting, filthy warmth fill him; Haytham mewled when he withdrew and choked back a sob when the man’s leavings dribbled down his leg. His knees gave out beneath him, and he crumpled, sinking down toward the ground to lean against the desk. 

He never should have obliged this man. He should have said no.

Fingers combed through his hair, and kind words were whispered in his ear; dimly, he felt lips press against his cheek. Reginald’s shadow eventually left, and Haytham distantly registered the sound of a door closing. Everything felt far away--everything except for the pain and the shame that he still felt, sharp and all too prominent now.

This was his fault.

Reginald would not-- _could not_ \-- have done this to him without prompting; he’d done something to incur this sort of behavior. How or when, Haytham did not know, but this was the only obvious answer. Why else would his mentor do this to him? Theirs was a relationship based on trust and respect, not... not _this_.

Haytham felt cold. He was lost--just as lost as when Reginald had first taken him under his wing.


End file.
